Call me a whore!

I knew her since childhood. Since elementary school, since high school, since ever. We have been schoolmates in the same generation. She was a leader of our generation. Always fashionable in clothes and behavior, always beautiful, tall, with delicate features, long blonde-brown hair and big green eyes.

She always had the highest grades, regardless of the difficulty of the subject, of the teacher’s severity or hysteria. Actually, she immediately won teachers’ respect. While they sometimes harassed, pricked or humiliated the rest of us with a biting remark or a disastrous grade, deserved or not, she was always above these teacher-student tensions and games.

After high school she went to study in London and not long after finishing the university she already had a key job in an important corporation. Yes, that’s how good she was. As long as I saw her every day I had no idea, no leaning, no intention to be with her. I was focusing on girls outside the high school, which seemed far more exotic, more interesting, more accessible, or at least on titters which, being younger, fell in love with me, some of them being pleasant enough to keep me busy. Anyways, I was too much of a kiddo for anything else but a myriad of experimental relationships specific to high school hormones.

photo credits flickr.com

But time passed and I realized that the famous ten years high school reunion was about to take place. As a matter of fact, it’s quite an interesting reunion due to the diversity of schoolmates’ evolution: some seeming as young as in the graduation exam day, both by appearance and freshness of thought, full of humor, but also with an open heart for the ex-teens together with whom they’ve been through so many things.

Some of them fat, decayed, destroyed, with empty eyes and minds, others imbued with their lofty achievements, strolling among their ex schoolmates with an attitude that requires reverence due to some highfalutin master degree at a second university abroad or to a job better paid than their parents’. The girls too, with children or not, are either withered (some of them presenting even some sad pre-hag features), or more stylish and feminine that I could remember them to be.

She was gorgeous. Smiling, spontaneous, charming. She had came back in Romania for a longer summer holiday and she was relishing every moment here. I don’t know how we connected. We simply talked for hours, then we felt the need to talk the next day out in town, at my place, on the phone, everywhere. And, unlike in my teen years, I had freedom, I had a house, I had a car and I had that grain of adulthood a man needs in order to be self-confident. On some days we were going at the sea, on others to some festival, to some party, to the mountains. As to the physical looks, we fitted marvelously. Anybody seeing us couldn’t but perceive us as a perfect couple.

And yet… and yet. One day we got to make love. I was romantic, I was tender, I opened my soul, I gave everything I could. But somewhere among those moments of sexual intimacy slipped in an embarrassment that none of us admitted openly, and yet it was there, between us. I was getting ever closer, I loved her and I would rather preferred not to have sex with her than to spoil the magic I was living. I began making up small pretexts: to disappear, to fall asleep, to postpone…

Until however, in one episode which saw me engaged in a rhythmic swaying of my waist at her back, I clasped her tightly enough to leave the small white marks of my palms on her buttocks. “YESSSS!”, she screamed, “YESSSS” and I clasped her again. At the sound signal yelled with full mouth from the other side of the bed, “DON’T STOP, HARDER”, I gave her a nice spank on her butt… but against the relentless encores asked with an ever hoarser voice, “HARDER, HARDER”, I found myself slapping her buttocks, slapping her thighs, turning her on her back and slapping her tits. She came four times. She grew red, she was thrilled, she was radiating with happiness. She looked at me with so much love, with so much reverence.

It was incredible. There followed many days of brutal screwing, with me whacking her face (with a vengeance, not just anyway), spat on her eyes, telling her she was a whore.

Somewhere I had found a kind of thin textile string I was using to choke her neck while fucking her. The more she lacked the air to breathe, the more she was begging me with her eyes to choke her harder.

When I fucked her from behind, I kept her ass upward and head on the carpet, pressing hard one of her cheeks with one of my feet. This position is not at all easy, it requires force, power, coordination, balance, mobility. The bed sheets were soggy because of her wetter and wetter orgasms. Outside the sexual intercourses she no longer saw me as a partner, as a lover, but as an angel. She had revealed me her mystery, her secret, her most intimate being. I don’t know from where the hell this need came, but this missy needed to be abused, needed to be a whore, a hooker.

One day, after such an intercourse, I walked, dick crooked and body broken, into the shower, and she sneaked after me, dragging the curtain behind her. I don’t know about others, but when I go into the shower and the water is running I feel an organic urge to pee. Uncomfortably with her there, I held myself for a while, but at a certain point I turned my back to her in order to put more shower gel on the sponge and began discreetly relieving myself in the sponge. “HEEEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE?”. I hear her… And suddenly she goes down on her knees, takes my cock in her hand and begins playing with my urine squirt, splashing it on her breasts, on her face.

When she took it in her mouth and began swallowing the piss, I won’t say, God forbid, I didn’t like it, but for a moment I thought, terrified, if I was ever going to piss at leisure in a simple water closet, on a compassionate tree or if I’ll have to hold myself every time until I’ll reach her and pee in her mouth.

After three weeks or so, it was too much for me. One day I had to go to Cluj on a two-day business trip. I left with my car, without being able to see her. The job didn’t go out well and I drove back to Bucharest at night, about 9 hours. When I got there, psychologically weakened and fagged out, I found that she had been waiting for me faithful and careworn all night long. After a few hours of sleep, she was awake beside me. I wanted nothing but to stay next to her, keep her in my arms, lean my head on her breast and stay still. To seek some tranquility, peace… to feel asleep again. But she haven’t seen me in four days. And needed something else. I couldn’t.

A few days after I told her we must break up. She was going to leave the country anyways and the idea of her giving up her London job just to keep her neck in my string seemed too much. I still love her and I know she loves me in turn. She’s married, the years have passed. The 20 years reunion is coming soon…

 

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